4 flights, 3 days of traveling. All I wanted was to arrive, order something delicious to eat, and settle into the hostel to take in the view of the mountains. I had come prepared with an initial survival kit in my suitcase, so I wouldn’t have to go out and buy anything. I could hibernate for a few days and give myself the time I needed to energetically acclimate. Instead, of course, things happened. Things always happen..
.
The bed wasn’t available yet.
The guy from the hostel invited me to a nearby waterfall he was heading to with a group of people. I asked him if it was close.
"Yes, 10 minutes max," he replied.
Not bad, I thought... It sounded like a chill plan. What could go wrong?
Never say that in India—you might be in for a surprise.
That’s how I met Akash.
Beside him was Juanita, a stunning Colombian woman, blonde, dazzling, and fully dressed in bright pink from head to toe.
They told me we were just waiting for the bikes.
"Bikes? What bikes?"
The waterfall was “10 minutes away”—by motorcycle.
Ten minutes, which in India is an approximate way of saying something—much worse than in Argentina—because here, they truly carry the vibrations of magic and yogic nonchalance in their blood.
The actual ride was 30 minutes without stops—not that we avoided those. The bikes were old, rundown scooters, and the riders were Akash, Juanita, and me—all three of us packed onto a single scooter, no helmets, squished together like a sandwich.
The streets in India are madness.
Exactly the kind of madness I was trying to avoid on my first day.
We were in the Laxman Jhula area—the tourist hub of Rishikesh, full of hippies and yogis.
The roads here are narrow, dusty, and mostly one-way, packed with tourists. Actually, packed with everything.
There are no sidewalks.
So, everyone and everything shares the streets in a scene that looks like a Where’s Waldo? illustration.
Pedestrians of all kinds: tourists, locals, fruit vendors with wooden carts parked on the road, monks or Sadhus draped in orange robes, sitting on the side with their metal bowls for donations, street stalls selling Chai—India’s signature milk tea—assorted merchandise, and, of course, India’s defining feature: the cows. Free.
That beautiful image of cows strolling through the chaos, reminding us that we are all part of the same thing.
That, for once, they have the rights that we humans have taken away from them everywhere else in the world.
Here, in India, the equation finally flips.
And there they are, in all sizes, colors, and genders, wandering around, taking naps, feeding their babies, strolling at their own pace, relieving themselves right in the middle of the street, painting each city corner in colors (and smells).
And, of course, blocking traffic with absolute indifference, blending into the chaos and impatience of the locals and their signature means of transportation: The motorcycles.
Another defining feature of the landscape.
The cars and the ever-present rickshaw—reminders of the richness and blend of ancestral genes with technological advances.
The monkeys, leaping from one side of the street to the other, delight us with Spider-Man-style climbs up balconies, often showcasing their acrobatics by jumping from one "sidewalk" to another—using the roofs of Tuk-Tuks or whatever else happens to be in between as trampolines.
Mini cups of Chai discarded on street corners and towering piles of trash—also part of the landscape.
More street vendors, more rickshaw stops.
All of it sharing the same physical space: the street-sidewalk.
Not much free space to pass through, walk, or simply exist.
So, as you can imagine, just stepping outside in India is a full-on sensory experience.
Driving is an advanced-level skill.
In Indian traffic culture, honking takes priority over braking—unless absolutely necessary (meaning, right before crashing into something or someone).
The truth is, the streets are so jam-packed with everything that you can’t go too fast or drive in a straight line for more than a few seconds without having to swerve around something—or someone.
There are no traffic lights.
Scooters rarely go over 30 km/h on regular streets. And so, you see Indian women in the back seat, gracefully sitting side-saddle in their traditional Saris—long, colorful dresses—legs elegantly resting on one side, almost as if they were on a slow-burning joyride.
Beautiful.
Meanwhile, in this obstacle course, India's greatest addiction is the horn.
EVERYONE honks. No matter what they’re driving, they honk all the time.
And by all the time, I really mean every 10 to 15 seconds.
Instead of slowing down, they honk. Instead of stopping at a corner, they honk. Instead of waiting—or while they wait—they honk.
At first, you don’t quite understand why or for what purpose. It’s a bit confusing.
But the truth is, the honking becomes the soundtrack of every street in India—and of Rishikesh as well.
Lanes and right-of-way are not really respected—if they even exist at all.
Neither are the yellow lines, so it’s completely normal to find yourself dodging a vehicle, a Tuk-Tuk, a scooter, or whatever else is coming straight at you in your own lane.
A beautiful madness.
You can’t not laugh. It’s incredible to witness.
A chaotic scene, yet somehow, it works.
It’s as if everyone “knows what they’re doing,” and in some strange way, there’s an order within the chaos.
Of course, you see potential disasters happening every second.
But at the same time, nothing happens—like watching a movie in slow motion.
And the cows makes the whole experience feel even wilder.
Yet, somehow, they also bring peace to the atmosphere.
"Look at the peace with which they walk," a monk tells me.
"If they can walk here, it means everything is okay."
I smile.
I believe him.
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